DEADLY DRIVER Read online

  “Been there many times. Love the monuments and the history. I got to meet the President in the White House and have been to a few events there. If you’re moving to DC I can be your tour guide if your brother doesn’t mind.”

  She smiled but then frowned. “Here you are showing me a good time. I move to the States and cut down on travel and you’re off to Europe till who knows when.”

  He laughed but then his expression changed. “Today was a good day, a very good day and I’ve really looked forward to seeing you again. Putting my uncle Pete in the ground up in Vermont and doing it on New Year’s Eve was a bitch.” He paused in thought but then smiled when she placed her hand on his. “I spent the night up in his cabin in the woods and started to go through his things. I found a journal he’d kept that went all the way back to his boot camp days in the Marines. I had no idea he’d kept one. I started to read it but just couldn’t – not yet. After I watched the ball drop sitting in his chair at the cabin, I went outside and stared up at the stars. I got up the next morning, shook off last year and then, out of the blue I get a text from you wishing me a Happy New Year. I took it as a sign of good things to come.” She leaned toward him and kissed until a server cleared his throat once and then again so he could continue service. They laughed.

  They talked for another hour. It was during that time that Kyoto shared why she had been so willing to move from Japan to the United States. Her father had been dying of cancer for some time and had finally passed in early December. Without any remaining family there, and all the international travel her job entailed, she told him that she had found it hard to maintain even casual friendships there. Just as Bryce was looking to the New Year as a new beginning, so was she.

  “Tell me about your dad, and your mom. You haven’t said much about either of them,” she suggested.

  He shook his head. “Nope, I’m having too good a time with you. Those are two sad stories we’ll save for another time.”

  They both went quiet for a moment but then Bryce broke a smile and looked to the future.

  “Okay, so you’ll get settled into your new digs in DC and I’ll fly over to England for some work. I’ll be gone a week and then don’t have to be anywhere but the gym until pre-season testing starts in Spain in February. Usually I hang in Monte Carlo. You probably know this, but the government requires you to live there a day over six months to qualify as a citizen and be tax exempt.”

  “And I thought it was because of the nude beaches, the casino, and the Mediterranean,” she joked.

  He grinned. “Maybe I can sneak back here, or you’d consider meeting me in Barcelona for Valentine’s Day.”

  She smiled. “We do things differently back in Japan. It is the woman who gives her love a gift of chocolate or something more in February. Then, a month later, we call it White Day, the love must return the sentiment. Maybe we need to set some rules – like we do whatever the locals do?”

  “Deal. That could be fun.” Bryce checked his watch. They had sat down at just past six o’clock and were only one of two tables still occupied at just past eleven. “Let me get you back to your hotel and then I’m off to England.”

  She gave him a look of surprise.

  “I see that look, young lady. You’re not getting into these pants all that easy!” he joked as he stood up and extended his hand.

  They walked to her hotel, the Millennium Times Square, where he accompanied her to her room on the 12th floor. They leaned against the hall walls and talked for another ten minutes until the door across from hers opened abruptly. A visibly annoyed and rather obese bald man in boxers and worn out t-shirt suggested they keep it down, go in, or go elsewhere.

  The couple laughed and apologized. Suddenly the man’s door opened again. He’d put on a hotel robe and had his phone with him. Busted, Bryce stood with the man as Kyoto took three photos of them standing together like old friends. Once the fan shook his hand and said goodnight, Bryce took hers and pulled her to him, kissing her once, and then giving her a slight bow. Their first date had now ended. Both would always look back on this evening as something very special.

  Bryce walked out onto 44th Street and headed west. He hadn’t gone far when a voice came from close behind him.

  “Give me your money, mother fucker!”

  Bryce spun around to see an imposing figure. The man was at least 6’5”, 300 pounds and wrapped in an assortment of sweaters, outer coats, torn pants. A filthy NY Jets wool hat was pulled down to his eyebrows.

  Bryce did as Pete had taught him decades ago. Look to the hands. Check the stance. No visible weapons. And this character was flat footed, neither foot set back to support a punch or launch an attack.

  Bryce stepped his right foot back and reached for his wallet. “Look, fella, times are hard. I’ll give you a twenty for some food. Then you’re going to walk away and there won’t be any more trouble.” The last thing he wanted after such a remarkable evening was to end it by sending some poor slob to the hospital.

  “I said hand it over!” the man roared. “All of it. Now!” He lunged for Bryce.

  Bryce sidestepped him. “Is that what you want? It’s cold out tonight. You want a free trip to a warm hospital bed? I can tell you the slab in the morgue is colder than it is out here. Take the twenty and—”

  The mugger swung at him. Bryce ducked away. Now, his conciliatory tone changed. “You know, on second thought, I don’t give a shit if you’re homeless, crazy, or out of a job. There’s no excuse for hassling people out here on the street. Problem is, if I call the cops you’ll be back out here doing this to someone else. And if I let you go—same deal, you’ll scare or hurt someone less able to take care of themselves.”

  The man’s expression showed Bryce had confused him.

  “Don’t just stand there.” Bryce motioned to him. “Come at me once more so I can end this and get back to where I was headed.”

  The hour and the winter cold had made this block a quiet one with very little car or pedestrian traffic. This city might never sleep but Bryce and his companion were very alone at the moment. Bryce looked both ways down the street then up at the buildings for security cameras. Good. Not a one.

  “Ain’t askin’ again. Give me your money.”

  But Bryce wanted the bastard to throw the first punch just in case there were witnesses or cameras he’d missed. “Come on you prick. You be the aggressor just one more time and I’ll just have to defend myself. You want it come take it, you piece of shit!” Bryce paused and smiled at his attacker. “I always wanted to say this movie line so here goes, Yippee-ki-yay mother fucker.”

  The incident was over with one lunge by the attacker and a well-placed punch to the throat thrown by his victim. The big mugger dropped in his tracks. Bryce was as good in hand-to-hand combat as he was behind the wheel, thanks to Pete and the two trainers from the CIA who taught him in private sessions overseas.

  Early the next morning, Bryce woke from a sound sleep and smiled at the text that had just landed.

  STILL IN TOWN? HUNGRY? NEED COFFEE?

  GOT TIME FOR BREAKFAST?

  I CAN BE IN YOUR HOTEL’S RESTAURANT IN 30 MINUTES

  LMK. KW

  He smiled and took one of the quickest showers possible. When the elevator door opened, there she was, a big smile and another tailored suit, this one a deep brown with a yellow scarf. In contrast, his blue jeans, button-down dress shirt, sport coat and hiking shoes were standard operating procedure on long–haul travel days, and every other day for that matter, whenever possible.

  Over breakfast they picked up where they had left off, as if nothing but a good night’s sleep had happened since they’d said goodnight. When Bryce called for the car that would take him to JFK for his flight to Heathrow, they waited together in the lobby until the black SUV pulled up and a familiar driver he requested whenever he was in town, came in to grab his luggage. Another kiss, followed by a long embrace, and then he was off – until their next rendezvous.

  CHAPT
ER TWENTY-ONE

  The CIA’s headquarters in Langley, Virginia has gained recognition in recent years, its star-bearing marble wall honoring the lives lost in service to their country portrayed in TV shows and films. Charged with foreign intelligence and restricted to conducting clandestine operations outside the United States, the CIA is home to techs, researchers, foreign language translators, administrative personnel, bureaucrats, and operatives also known as spies. Some of these dedicated individuals have been known to hold a grudge and seek revenge. To these few, justice wasn’t just a building in DC named after Bobby Kennedy. To them, it was their mission.

  Agents Brownell, Russo, and Chadwick believed their supervisor Gunn and their friend Myers had been targeted and assassinated in Mexico. They were intent on revenge. They got the face time they had wanted with Bryce Winters at Indianapolis and came away wanting his head. While waiting for Gunn’s replacement to be named, they decided what they would focus on. Sitting around a small white table in a small white meeting room at HQ, the trio discussed their options.

  “When I was shadowing Winters at that trade show,” Brownell said, “ he spent a lot of time with some racing fuel guys. I wonder if there’s something we can put in his fuel to blow him up – make it look like a mechanical failure or a plot by a competitor?”

  “Maybe some Nitro. I can check with our chemists,” Russo suggested. “Or we could contaminate his fuel and get him disqualified a few times; take a few wins away from the guy and brand him as a cheater.”

  “Too many people involved with those options and too much collateral damage,” Brownell said. “Why not just put a bullet in him when he’s out on the track – maybe at Sochi. Put it on the warring mobs that we lit a fire under – that Winters lit a fire under.”

  Chadwick nodded. “Maybe. One thing for sure there’s something brewing between Winters and Madigan. Not sure what it is but I can go visit Madigan, see if we can exploit it and turn him. Turn them against each other.”

  “That’s it – Madigan’s a computer guy. Forget the fuel idea – get him to sabotage the car,” Russo suggested.

  “Maybe there’s another way. His friend Werner – we’ve had eyes on him the past two years. He’s been up to no good with the Iranians and the Russians. What if we send Winters to take him out and then send the police in to catch him with the murder weapon in his hands. Kill two birds without firing a shot.”

  The three talked for another twenty minutes and agreed on an action plan. Brownell would dig deeper into Werner, and Chadwick and Russo would go to Charlotte to pay Madigan a visit. They’d need to work fast though, as word had come down from the top floor that Gunn’s replacement would be seated within ten days and there were no assurances he, or she, would share their enthusiasm for putting an end to Bryce Winters.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  At the Catalunya race circuit just outside of Barcelona, the silver safety car, a sleek Mercedes AMG coupe, screamed down the front stretch. It was media day, twenty-four hours before any of the F1 cars would take the first lap of preseason testing. As Bryce gave the car all it could take without spinning out, his shotgun rider held tight and laughed nervously to camouflage his panic. He’d challenged the F1 driver to scare the hell out of him, and Bryce was doing that and then some.

  The G-forces of the sweeping turns, the acceleration, the heavy braking, then next turn coming on so quickly, and then another, and then another. Living on the edge was what Bryce loved to do, at least on the track. But he had no idea he was slowly killing the man riding with him.

  As he brought the car back onto pit road he looked to his right and raised his hand to give the VIP a fist bump. Shocked by what he saw, Bryce made an erratic turn and stopped in front of the silver Medical Car and the two trauma doctors who were leaning on its fenders. The man’s head was down and his face a dark blue, in stark contrast to the shiny white of his open-face helmet.

  It took only seconds for them to react to Bryce’s gestures and pull the man from his seat and lay him out on the concrete. The team administered CPR and used their portable heart defibrillator as Bryce stood by ready to help if needed. From the primary doctor’s expression, Bryce knew the ride had been the man’s last.

  Journalists and camera operators had converged on the scene, startled by the unexpected move by the American driver. Bryce had ignored their questions as he watched the medical staff do their work and spoke briefly to the safety car’s race-weekend driver expressing concern for the man. Once the body was placed on a stretcher and loaded into the ambulance, he turned to the crowd. Everyone was shouting questions, all of it going out live and around the world.

  First, he explained that he didn’t know the man. He said that he was just one of many VIPs scheduled for a hot lap, a thrill ride, around the circuit. He then offered his condolences to the man’s family and told the press he had nothing more to say. Journalists continued to call out questions as he headed for his team’s hospitality area, but then he caught himself and turned away from the newly branded Werner livery and quickly course corrected for his new one. Only two persistent journalists continued to pursue him. One caught his attention, slowing him from a fast pace.

  “You said you don’t know the man who died while riding with you,” she said. “You didn’t know he was regarded as an enemy of the state, someone who challenged the government’s rule? He was also a ex-convict who used to deal cocaine across Spain and Portugal.”

  Bryce kept walking but looked at her. “Nope, sure didn’t.”

  She persisted. “This man had powerful friends and powerful enemies. Are you at all worried that some may find you at fault for his death?”

  Bryce shook his head. “Lady, the excitement killed him. He was a big man; maybe he had heart problems. Maybe they should post warning signs like they do on roller coasters. That’s all I have to say on the matter.”

  He suggested to her that he needed to get something to drink and time to decompress. By this time one of the new team’s PR people had intercepted Bryce and escorted him into the private quarters they had set up for him on the second level of their hospitality area. Once inside he drank an entire bottle of an orange sports drink and sat down to take in his new digs.

  There on the wall were the three photos that followed him wherever he went. Photographs of his father Paul, his uncle Pete and his first and only girlfriend Christy. All three were gone now. He looked to the Daytona photo, of him standing alongside Max Werner in victory lane. Bryce shook his head. His relationship with Werner had come to an end, and he felt very lonely standing there in Spain.

  A knock at the door brought him back to here and now. His two bodyguards, earpieces and lightweight jackets to hide their hardware were on duty now that he was on site in his suite. A member of the PR team, a cute brunette with a South African accent, knocked and then stuck her head in and advised him that a representative from the American Consulate in Barcelona was there to greet him.

  “You saw their credentials? It’s not another journalist, you’re sure?” he asked. She nodded in the affirmative. “Do me a favor, find out how the hell I wound up driving around with a damn drug lord. Doesn’t anyone screen these people?”

  She smiled, made the money gesture with her right hand, and then stepped back and motioned for the diplomat to enter. A plain looking middle aged man, receding gray hairline, eyeglasses, plain blue suit and striped tie but with an American flag lapel pin in place. Someone just wants a photo I’ll bet, Bryce thought. The man presented his identification, shook Bryce’s hand, and then looked to the staffer with an expression that told her she could go. She glanced at Matt who nodded and closed the door behind her.

  “Thanks for stopping by. I can’t think of—” Bryce began but was cut off in mid-sentence by a hand gesture from his guest. He watched as the man flipped the lock on the door and pulled an object from his coat pocket, placing it on the table in front of them. It was a small square black box, measuring perhaps 2” per side. A little red light on
the top began to glow confirming it was functioning.

  “Not a problem, Mr. Winters. I’m not actually with the consulate.” The man reached inside his suit coat pocket and presented another form of identification. Jason Ryan, CIA.

  “I was wondering when I would hear from you guys again,” Bryce said, gesturing for his uninvited guest to take a seat. “This isn’t my first rodeo. I’ve seen those jammers before. But you need to give me more before we talk any further. I don’t know you.”

  “Certainly. You used to report to Glen Gunn, and your handler was Joan Myers, codename Nitro – your choice, I’m told. Both were killed in Mexico. Back at the shop we’ve all been waiting to see who would replace them and what they’d decide to do with you.”

  Bryce let out a sigh. He had hoped somehow that the bureaucracy in Washington might lose him in the shuffle and forget about him, but this visit ended that dream.

  “Who did I last meet and where was it?” Bryce asked.

  “The three musketeers, that’s what we call them back at Langley. You met them in Indianapolis in December. They’re old school, knuckle draggers as far as I’m concerned, but they come in handy when that sort of medicine- outside of the United States, of course, is prescribed. What they lack in stealth capabilities they make up for with effort. They were pretty tight with Myers so, to be frank, I’m surprised they didn’t have someone take you out or at least have you roughed up. Some people don’t think that happens, that it’s not that easy to make someone disappear. But it happens every day. Sometimes it’s a car crash, sometimes – like today – it looks like a heart attack.”

  Bryce did a double take at his guest.

  “Yes, we did it – you and the CIA. We’ve had eyes on that fat bastard for some time. When we saw he was on the guest list for your ride-along we had someone drop a little something extra in his orange juice this morning at the media breakfast. Then you took him out and scared him to death. His heart was on the edge already. We tuned it up and you put the finishing touches to it. The coroner will rule it a heart attack with contributing factors like his obesity and high blood pressure. Case will be closed before the casket is. Much more creative than just blowing the lid off a Russian animal in a bathroom, don’t you think?”